


Maxie's Kink-Xtravaganza

by Mx_Maxie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dom/sub, Gentle female domination, Kinktober 2019, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-11-27 10:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20947043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maxie/pseuds/Mx_Maxie
Summary: Right what it says on the tin. Kinktober fills with warnings per chapter and a heavy lean towards gfd





	1. Day 1: Seduction

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: gfd, gender neutral Sub, female Domme, second person pov.

What catches you first darling? The curl of her smile or the crook of her finger? Was it her smoky laugh stealing the breath from your throat or her dropped low voice coaxing you closer, just a little closer?  
  
Maybe it was the slide of her palm along your side, resting warm and heavy on the jut of your hip, pulling you flush and close against her. And the brush of her lips against your cheek, teasing you, poor darling you.  
  
She just wanted a dance, at first, what could a dance hurt? One hand on your shoulder, the other at your hip, and swaying in place. There was nothing more to it, except the playful gleam in her eye and the sweetness of her kiss. A slow kiss, slow enough to pull away from and turn down, but you didn’t.  
  
You wanted that kiss, wanted her hands cupping your face and holding you still so she could do whatever she damn well pleased. What did she taste like? Champagne and strawberries, thick and sweet on her tongue, coaxing your breath faster, swallowing your needy little whine whole.  
  
And you didn’t have to follow her somewhere else, somewhere private, but you went because you wanted it. Because you wanted to have more of her all to yourself where no one else could see. Because you wanted to be selfish and have her.  
  
But, use your words darling and explain which part of her dazzled you first?  
Could it have been the way she coaxed you to your knees, down-down, till you had to tip your head back to look at her. Was it the gentle hand on your cheek and the thumb stroking your lips, tracing the seam of them?  
  
Or the supple drop as she knelt with you, one hand on your face and the other tugging your fine shirt out of the way; undoing buttons and tugging it out of its smart tuck. Nothing left between your skin and her fingers trailing along your collar bone. Nothing left between your flushed chest and the scratch of her nails along your heaving ribs, the scrape of them down your somersaulting stomach.  
  
Did your heart stop when her hand rested so casual on your spread thigh or did it just trip over itself in your excitement? You really must say darling, what sent that shudder juddering through you?  
  
She could feel it you know, your squirming under her hands. Was that why you did it again? Or was it her lips at your ear, murmuring soft and secret about your pretty parted lips and burning hot cheeks. You liked that, didn’t you darling. When she twined her fingers through your hair and dragged your head to the side, telling you how lovely you looked all the while.  
  
You moaned when she kissed your neck, so perhaps that was it, the moment you lost and won and wanted.


	2. Day 2: Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: overstimulation, mild cock and ball torture, bondage, gfd, male Sub, female Domme

Sometimes they use the cuffs to keep him still; buckled tight around his slim wrists and locked around his ankles. There’s not much he can do once she ties him down but he fights because that’s the fun of the restraints. Fighting and fighting and knowing they won’t fail and he’s at her sweet mercy.  
  
Sometimes they do that but not tonight. This is a punishment after all and the cuffs would make this so much easier on him, so they leave those off. Instead, he kneels all on his own, hands clasped obediently behind his back and eyes on her. He isn’t allowed to look anywhere else, but she doesn’t think he could.  
  
“How’re we doing darling? Remember to use your big boy words” she coos, running the tip of the crop along his cheekbone. The leather looks so nice against his blush, so pretty and dark, that she has to trail it down his throat too. She feels the weight of his swallow that way, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he searches for the words.  
  
His cock is still an aching mess between his legs, twitching desperately, but he hasn’t cum yet. He’s such a good boy, always listens and obeys, except when he doesn’t, and she has to remind him.  
  
“I—f-fine, more? More please,” the tacked on please makes her smile, or maybe it’s the breathy, breathless way he says it. He has such a nice voice and she loves to hear it; strung out and breaking, low and rasping across her skin. He has a very nice voice.  
  
“So polite, do you think you deserve more sweetheart?” she asks absently, circling a pert nipple with the crop. There’s a fairy-ring of teeth around it, perfect little marks that stand out red against his skin, and redder against the purpling hickies.  
  
Further down, along the trail of bruises and bitemarks to the spread of his thighs, still perfect and pristine. She hasn’t touched his thighs very much at all, only caressed them with overly-gently hands, only dragged the smooth leather of the crop along the length of his trembling legs. From the inside of his knee to the crease of his thigh and along the wet length of his cock.  
  
“I deserve anything you give me,” he says and she laughs, what a good answer. Pretty boy, always knowing how to use his pretty words.  
  
She taps the meat of his leg contemplatively, wonders if she could stretch, him just a bit tauter. His eyes already glazed over, pupils dilated till there’s only black to see, and they’re fixed on her face. Begging silently since he knows better than to use those pretty words, unless she lets him.  
  
Those pretty words are why he’s here now, kneeling at the foot of their bed, and so turned on it hurts, poor thing. She didn’t give him permission to beg then so she’s teaching him how to hold his tongue now. He couldn’t beg as she worked him over.  
  
Not when she held him against the bed by the throat and bit her way down his chest. Not when she kissed his cock hard and worked him open with her fingers til he was right there. Balanced on the edge and so, so ready to cum. He wasn’t allowed to beg when she didn’t let him.  
  
Not the first time, or the second time, and certainly not the third time. And now here they are. Here he is, shuddering from how much he wants and can’t get, over-stimulated nearly out of his mind, and her considering.  
  
He has been good and obeyed so well, hmm, what the hell, he does deserve something.  
  
“Right answer baby,” she says, throwing the crop on the bed. And the look on his face, oh the drop of his lips and relief in his eyes. Why it’s downright gorgeous.  
  
And the shock-pain-shame-pleasure that flashes lightning quick when she steps on his dick with her very nice heel is delicious. The whining punched out noise he makes sits warm and slick in her stomach, and it’s only a shame she didn’t choose the stilettos tonight.  
  
“Think you can cum like this?” isn’t really a question, because she knows he can, he’s done it before. He’s already leaning forward, into the press of her leg and canting his hips to get more of that friction, more of the pressure.  
  
“Yes,” he hisses, sex drunk and half gone already. She drops a hand to his head, petting his hair as he grinds against her foot, desperate and shameless. He doesn’t care what he must look like now; flushed, debauched, fucked out, like a dirty little slut chasing down a high.  
  
Oh no, he only cares about cumming. Because he has permission to now, because she’s letting him, after teasing him to tears she thinks she can be nice now.  
  
“F-fuck!” he moans as she digs the heel of this not-stiletto shoe into his balls.  
  
Well, maybe not all nice. This is supposed to be a punishment after all and her sweet boy doesn’t even stop bucking his hips, so it can’t hurt all that bad. They’ll have to do this again, and next time she’ll make sure to wear the stilettos.


	3. Day 3: Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: blood drinking, frottage, gfd, male Sub, gender neutral Domme, second person pov

You would’ve expected red. Red’s the old, classic cliché after all, and it looks so delicious smeared on his prettily parted lips. But his colour isn’t red. Red’s the colour of his flush, high on his cheeks and staining the length of his throat, dipping down his chest. Red’s the colour of his cock pressed up against your thigh, wet and ruddy, twitching adorably.  
  
Red’s the colour of your blood at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not his colour.  
  
Purple, his colour is purple, slick and sleek and seductive purple. Purple is the neon colour flashing through the open window and pooling in the softest parts of him. It’s purple in the hollows of his throat, matching so well with the fingers bruised into his flesh. Purple’s what draws the eye to open collar of his shirt, sweeping along his ribs, resting on the sharp jut of his hips.  
  
His lips, sticky with your blood, are…warm. What do the stories say? Cold, cold because there’s no heart and no soul; cold because vampires are dead as doornails, but he’s not. Your pretty little bloodsucker is the warmest thing. Lips hot against your neck, burning brand hot, but so gentle because he doesn’t want to hurt you.  
  
“Still hungry baby?” you ask, petting his hair idly. He sits against you, leaning into the cradle of your body. He’s big, tall and spindly like vampires are supposed to be and he can’t quite fit in your lap but he tries.  
  
Propped you against the headboard with so many pillows, all hellishly soft, and spread your thighs wide till there was space enough for him. Now he’s sat against one crooked leg and has the other caught between his own, rutting against your thigh in a lazy daze.  
  
“I…I don’t need more,” he mumbles, nuzzling against your chest like a cat begging for pets. Pretty darling. He doesn’t need as much blood as the stories would suggest, he doesn’t drain people dry or even feed that often, but he’s still so hesitant.  
  
He can live off this for another week, it took the edge off, but you want him satisfied. You want to see his cheeks pink with pleasure and his eyes glazed over in bliss. You want him glutted and half drunk.  
  
“But you want more, don’t you baby?” you hum, stroking the side of his throat, fitting your fingers over the bruises you’ve left him. They look lovely against his neck and are just high enough that he won’t be able to hide them easily. Not that he would. Your boy’s the shameless type.  
  
He doesn’t care about strangers, he only cares about you. He wants you happy, he wants you healthy, and he won’t give you what you want unless you push. Well, it’s easy enough to push.  
  
“C’mon, just a little? Please baby, for me?”  
  
He doesn’t need to breathe, he told you that once, but it’s hard to break old habits and the whine that rumbles against your skin wouldn’t be as sweet without that little hitch of breath. You feel it in his throat, bumping against your fingers, and the jerk of his cock against your leg, and you smile softly. Good boy.  
  
His lips trail kisses along your chest, over the bump of your collarbone before they settle into the dip of your throat again. Warm tongue lapping at the already healed marks there, the tiniest, pinprick scars that only scarred because he’s bitten you so many times. Always so careful, always lifting one hand to cradle your jaw and part of your neck, to hold you still so he doesn’t hurt you very much.  
  
Not that you mind the pain, you like the slick, quick pain of his fangs slicing right through your skin, right through the muscle into the vein. There should be fear, there should be rage, adrenaline flooding your system to fight, he’s said, but you don’t feel any of that. You just feel the sweet, cool, fucking fantastic high sliding into your bones and unravelling every bit of you.  
  
Hormones, pheromones, something like that he said. To make it easier on the prey, to keep them still and pliant. You don’t give much of a fuck about that. You’re practically melting to the pillows already, held up by his body pressed tight against yours, by his lips burning into your skin.  
  
You can never describe it after, not perfectly because it’s the highest high and the most decadent afterglow and sits low and sweet in your gut better than most orgasms you’ve had. Hmm, no, that’s not true. This is better than orgasms you’ve had from people who aren’t your pretty darling.  
  
Who’s told you it’s just as good for him but didn’t have to bother saying it. You can hear it, hear him, moaning against your neck as he drinks and drinks, just like you wanted. You expected him to sound guttural, way back when, like a predator tearing into his meal but he’s not. He’s your pretty darling whining against your throat when you press your thigh against his dripping cock.  
  
You half expect him to push your leg away when he wraps his free hand around your thigh, think the sensations are too much for him, but no. He tugs you closer, holds you tight against him so he can fuck against the meat of your thigh. He’s cum like that before, lips at your throat, grinding against your leg, or the bed, or fucking into your hand as he chased the high of a full belly and a spent cock.  
  
“Sweet boy,” you hum, words slurring as you pet the side of his throat. Slipping around to feel the bob and dip as he swallows and groans and whimpers.  
  
Keep them there when he stops drinking and pulls away in bits and pieces. The teeth go first, sliding free with the barest sting, and then his burning lips, and when he pulls away, you sigh happily. Those pretty eyes of his are blown wide, pupils dilated like a cat’s, but there’s still the barest glimmer of green, and it’s such a pretty sight.  
  
“Pretty as a picture,” you laugh breathlessly, and he blushes hotter. Though his mouth stays open in a pant, tongue hanging out, and your blood on it. There’s more blood smeared around his mouth, smudged like lipstick, and it’s more attractive than it should be.  
  
He’s still grinding against your leg, shallow thrusts with no rhythm, but it’s a soothing repetition. You don’t want him to cum just yet, still riding his blood high with him, but later. When your brain isn’t sloshing around inside your skull and you can string a few thoughts together.  
  
“Thank you,” he says, voice rasping, eyes unfocused, so lovely.  
  
“Thank you,” he sighs, tucking into you again, nuzzling in like a cat begging for pets.


	4. Day 4: Dacryphilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: cock and ball torture, crop, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, edging, orgasm denial, bratty male Sub, gender netural Domme, second person pov.

“Fuck,” he growls, sharp and bitten off.  
  
“Fuck,” he whines, desperate and soft.  
  
“F-fuck,” he stutters and slurs like he doesn’t know how the word fits in his mouth. His pretty mouth, bruised red and hanging open mouth.  
  
That mouth of his is always getting him in trouble. Taunting and jeering and tempting. What you can and can’t do to him, what he doesn’t think you’re mean enough to try. You’re so soft after all, prefer to coddle and praise and leave him with the barest marks afterwards. You’re not rough, you can’t handle him, he’s being so good doing whatever you say, but he doesn’t have to.  
  
…he says.  
  
“Look at me,” you croon, sugar sweet like you always are, digging your nails into his jaw, forcing his lolling head up.  
  
That pretty mouth of his is hanging open now and those pouty lips tremble with every one of his juddering pants. There’s a line of drool down his chin and his eyes are dazed, utterly gone, but he hasn’t tapped out yet, and you know he can go further.  
  
“Oh, are you done already baby? You wanna cum now?” you tease him, sliding the crop along his cock and down over his balls. He’s dripping wet from the lube and his own leaking cock. How many edges has it been so far? You can’t remember exactly but his cock is flushed angry and aching, and his heartbeat is a steady thud against your fingers.  
  
He wanted this, your rowdy boy, he wanted to prove that he was the one in control, really he was. Because he could just not listen to you, he could disobey and be the worst kind of brat, but he didn’t. He was good and shouldn’t you be so glad?  
  
You were, you are, but…he wanted this. He wanted to get tied to a chair, thighs spread obscenely wide, and edged until one of you broke. There wasn’t a prize to win or anything like that but it would be satisfying to know.  
  
And here you are, still cool and composed with a slow, simmering kind of lust in your gut, heady. And here he was, flustered and panting, covered in a thin sheen of sweat and knocked down a whole six pegs.  
  
“Nnng, no, I’m good, I’m f-fine, I can still go,” he huffs, so sure of himself, but he still nuzzles into your hand when you cup his cheek. You let him kiss your palm while you massage his balls with the leather head of the crop.  
  
You’re being nice, nicer than he asked but you can’t help yourself. He looks so sweet like this, and he barely flinches when you slap his pretty cock. His muscles tense and his mouth snaps shut with a sharp little click, but he doesn’t flinch. Not when you smack him again, once, twice, three times.  
  
There’s nowhere for him to go, his hands are cuffed behind him, thighs tied open, even his ankles are cuffed to the legs of the chair. He can flinch back into the chair, or hunch over as far as the cuffs allow, but he can’t hide himself from you. Just like he asked.  
  
You stroke his thighs as he strains to keep himself silent, so determined not to make a sound, and feel the tremble there. Another lazy swot, three more, and you let the crop fall loose, only holding by tie around your wrist.  
  
There’s sweat beading at his temples, slicking down his neck, and his breaths are halting now, catching and falling in his throat. And there’s the wettest sheen of tears in his eyes, from the pain of it, the incessant, unforgiving pain that he loves so much.  
  
“Pretty baby,” you sigh as those tears fall and his bruised lips part again. There’s nothing composed about him now, nothing cocky and teasing anymore; there’s only naked need and desperation.  
  
And tears, there are such lovely tears rolling down his cheeks.  
  
“Are you ready to cum for me, pretty boy?” you ask, licking your lips as those glimmering diamond tears fall and splatter on his collarbones. They leave shining tracks behind and you can’t help but lean forward and wipe them away with careful thumbs. Cradling his face as more take their place.  
  
He doesn’t try to pull away or stop, just lets them fall, such a good boy.  
  
“Yeah, yesss,” and he draws out the sibilant S, moans it til it’s barely a word by the end, but that’s fine.  
  
You lean close and kiss him gently, a chaste little thing, but he whines into it. Strains against the cuffs for all of a second before slumping back down, but you understand the unspoken request.  
  
A hand is all it takes, a warm hand wrapped around his cock, stroking gently but precise. You know the quickest ways to drag him right to the edge, thumb firm on the slit of his cock, and he even tries to fuck into your touch. Thighs trembling as he forces himself up, fighting against the ropes digging into the meat of his leg.  
  
Soon he can’t even do that, too focused on cumming this time, on being allowed to cum. You’ve had him here, right here, before. Head thrown back and chest heaving, cheeks wet with tears and mouth slack with a thin line of drool creeping past his lips. You’ve had him desperate and wanting, and you’ve kept him there for a while before letting him fall back.  
  
Back to a place where his pounding heartbeat isn’t the loudest thing in the world and he can think around the hazy, thick pleasure. You’ve left him there, frustrated and wanting, all those times and you could leave him there this time too. You could be cruel, like he says you can’t be, and win this game of yours, but you don’t particularly want to.  
  
You’ve already won, his burning blushed cheeks are streaked with tears and what more could you ask for?  
  
So, you let him cum. You don’t take your hand away and watch his cock twitch helplessly, demanding just a little more. The last few strokes are easy, glide so well through his dribbling precum and all the lube you’ve use.  
  
And he’s near perfectly silent as he cums for you, finally cums for you. His mouth hangs open but there’s nothing but his harsh panting to fill the silence, nothing but the creak of the chair as he arches up and his back curves beautifully. Nothing but the lewd squelching of your hand around his cock as he cums, and cums, and cums.


	5. Day 5: Corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: body worship, succubus, named characters, wlw

“My Lady Queen,” Phen murmurs, curtseying in the doorway as the last belligerent councilman hurries himself out. Margaux would usually make a point of remembering whatever his grievance was but she’s had a long day of this. All of her non-lovely court have been barging into her chambers, demanding audiences, and complaining about trite nonsense.  
  
The sun’s barely setting and there’s already a headache pounding between her ears and an ache settled in her back. Too long sitting quietly and not long enough with her pets but sometimes it can’t be helped.  
  
“Lady Phenex, what can I help you with today?” she asks, glaring blearily at her meticulously written notes. There’s a cramp in her wrist that she can’t work out too; she should probably think about having a scribe, or at least a clerk to help keep all of this organized. She’s the god damn Queen and she files her own reports, her mother would be disgusted.  
  
Phen doesn’t answer, instead she very deliberately closes the door and locks it with something heavier than the deadbolt. Margaux can feel it, a twinge in her shoulder blade, and sighs. Half her headache might just be too many pins in, her lady’s maids loved putting up her hair in elaborate styles. She’d get rid of them now but it would be such a chore to hunt them out, besides, she has more important things to fuss over now.  
  
And Margaux doesn’t hear Phen step behind her, no swish of skirt or step of shoe, but her darling’s there anyway. She's a steady pressence at her back and she's warm fingers plucking pins from her hair and teasing the hair out of its place again. The relief is a painful thing, a snapped elastic that’s finally back in its proper shape and all the more confused for it.  
  
“Shh, my majesty, let me fix it,” Phen murmurs, whisper quiet and Margaux sighs. Phen is her girl, her darling girl, who’d burn the court living if it would please her Queen. And Margaux’s halfway to letting her do it.  
  
For now though, Phen’s a different kind of comfort. Phen’s a soothing warmth working across her scalp, teasing away the pulsing ache behind her eyes with practiced hands. Phenex is the pet that’s best at this, easing tension from her knotted muscles and lifting the mantle of responsibility off her shoulders. Her fingers are sure as they glide from Margaux’s scalp, combing through her hair, and down to her stiff neck.  
  
Today was…taxing. So many audiences with so many people wanting so many different things. Merchants wanted more preference, farmers wanted lower taxes, magistrates wanted greater sentencing power, and all the petty nobility wanted her to continue the expansion her father had started. Conquest was in her blood, they said, Margaux should’ve added far more land to their kingdom already and had a politically advantageous marriage years ago.  
  
“Hn, those fools don’t know what they want,” Phen tsks, coaxing her queen lower, to rest on the desk and the silk pillow that’s taken the place of her notes.  
  
Margaux goes with a sigh, half exhausted and half delighted, as Phen starts on the burning ache just at the top of her spine. Sitting still too long, sitting up straight with no support, it was all too much for her these days and Phen knows it. She’s particularly gentle there, palm squeezing carefully but fire hot still, she can’t help that.  
  
The pain fades in slow, measured breaths, and Margaux lets her eyes close, all the better to enjoy Phen’s touch on her skin. Her darling girl, her burning hot darling, Margaux moans when Phen traces the scarred over skin simply because she can. Because Phen’s feather light touch sends a shock along her spine, has her heart flipping sloppily in her chest.  
  
“The twilight passes, weeping, and my fingers climb. Trembling, provocative, the line of your haunches,” Phen recites for her, leaning in close, warm breath brushing Margaux’s nape.  
Her mother had a royal poet, a man Margaux barely remembers; the older servants say he was quiet good at his craft but this good? Good enough to weave spells into metaphors and sooth tense muscles with a quote? Margaux doesn't think so, and she sighs, sprawled half boneless on the desk.  
  
No one could be as good as her darling girl, they don’t have her sweetly coaxing voice, they don’t sound like a familiar summer breeze on a half-forgotten day. Phen, her Phenex, kisses the nape of her neck with lips hot enough to melt the flesh from her bones and Margaux shudders. There’s a reverence in that kiss, trembling and half-shocked, and the hungry, not-human thing inside of her perks up.  
  
“My ingenious fingers wait when they have found, the petal flesh beneath the robe they part,” Phen’s voice is perfectly pitched, it dips and weaves words into an intricate thing, but there’s a breathiness underneath it. There’s something only Margaux can hear, only for her.  
  
All of her pets, her darling court, hold themselves so differently in public. They’re fierce and haughty and sneer down their noses all those petty little humans who try to associate themselves with their Queen. They’re everything the people expected of infernal things, and only half as terrible as Margaux knows they can be, but for her, they’re desperate.  
  
For her, Phen’s touch will shake and her fingers will fumble the buttons of her dress, hurrying to get them undone so she can touch more, have more. Margaux could help, reach back and pop them free, or order Phenex to rip them out, but she doesn’t. She lounges on her pillow and enjoys the soft fingers brushing her skin through the stiff silk, and smiles.  
  
Half the buttons go flying, the rest barely holding on by a thread, but her dress falls open all the same. It hangs off her arms, drooping forward under the weight of the corset boning, and Phen coaxes it forward until Margaux’s half naked from the waist up. There’s nothing between her tired back and the world, nothing but her darling girl, and there’s no other person alive as safe as Margaux is now.  
  
“I follow slowly the graceful contours of your hips,” Phen whispers, stepping in so close, right up against her back and Margaux knows the backing of the chair is gone. Perhaps it’s gone where her notes went.  
  
Hmm, but who can care about that when slender fingers soothe the marks on her hips, the place where the boning cut into her skin. A familiar annoyance but so new under Phen’s burning touch. It’s a paradoxical relief, the fire shock of Phenex’s touch and the bone deep relief that follows, it’s visceral and so, so fucking nice.  
  
“The curves of your shoulders.”  
  
One hand glides back up, skating along her side and away from all the other scars; those aren’t Phen’s to touch. The other slides down her thigh, traces a familiar path around to Margaux’s warm cunt, and stills. Phen’s breath catches, Margaux can hear it in her ear, and she can hear the hesitant little swallow. Her darling girl wasn’t expecting, hoping maybe, but didn’t presume.  
The next line is shaky, breathy, desperate, and Margaux smiles.  
  
“The curves of your shoulders, your neck, your unappeased breasts.”  
  
She turns as Phen leans in and catches her darling girl up short and Phen freezes. Her gorgeous golden eyes blow wide, nothing but burning gold now, so inhuman but Margaux knows they’re taking her in. Looking at the curve of her lips, the spill of her hair, the fall of her dress down her arms until she just slips them sleeves off entirely.  
  
And Margaux looks right back, the half spread wings brushing the ceiling and how light shatters against them. How Phen’s lips are trembling and parted ever so slightly, the next line hanging on her tongue, but they’re so enticing that Margaux can’t let her continue.  
  
She meets those sweet lips in a kiss that’s filthy enough to please the creature in her veins; licking into a burning mouth that tastes like nothing but honey and fire. Phen moans, a shivering, shuddering mess of a thing that Margaux laps up lazily, enjoying the buzz of it on her tongue. All of their kisses are like that, slow and lazy, with more drool sliding down their chins than’s becoming of ladies, but Margaux doesn’t care when Phen whimpers for her.  
  
Slowly, without breaking their kisses, Phen manoeuvres herself into Margaux’s lap, settling happily with a shuffle of feathers. There’s a sharp sting on her shoulder and then the chair has a back again, decadently plush, that she sinks into easily, dragging her darling girl closer as she goes.  
  
And during the shift Phen’s hands fell away but Margaux catches them up again, leads them where she wants. One goes to her chest, massaging her breasts and teasing her nipples, and the other goes back to her cunt with moaned permission.  
  
Phen doesn’t miss a beat, whining into Margaux’s mouth even as her fingers slip into her Queen’s decently wet pussy. She knows exactly what Margaux likes; the way to slide two fingers in to the knuckle without pause, because the stretch is delightful, and how to crook her fingers just so because it’ll have Margaux bearing down around her.  
  
There's no rush here in her private chambers, Phenex locked the rest of the world out with a snap of her fingers, and blocked it out with a curl of her wings. Margaux's free to moan obscenely when her pretty darling thumbs her clit, gently but so relentless. And she can enjoy the slow drag and slide of the nimble fingers in her cunt, even the tease of them so deep inside of her.  
  
“In your wild voluptuousness my desire rests,” Phen breathes, half drunk on her Queen's pleasure, “Swooning, refusing itself the kisses of your lips.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Phenex is reciting is The Muse of the Violets by Renée Vivien which is actual sapphic poetry. Phen and Margaux are original characters and Phen is just one of Margaux's demon pets. There's five in total; two gals and three fellas, each of them is a different type of demon and I all love them dearly.


	6. Day 6 & 7: Mirror and Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combined the days because I can do whatever I please. 
> 
> Day 6&7: body worship, praise kink, mirror sex, gag, fingering, bondage, male Sub, gender neutral Domme, second person pov.

It starts with an off hand comment, something about beauty, something about a poem. The romantics, Blake, it's always about the imagery, the beauty in wildflowers and the allure of a smile.  
  
"To be as lovely as a muse," he murmurs absently and you think it's a quote at first. Half asleep in his lap as he reads, the day's warm and lazy and his fingers sliding through your hair is so relaxing you almost miss it.  
  
"And move a man to the page," but that doesn't sound like anything he's read to you before and he's read you the whole thing cover to cover. It's off enough to remember, to stick in the back of your head and make you think.  
  
He's gorgeous, lovely, beautiful, but does he realise? You've told him but does he think it's just talk? Pretty words that don't mean anything, just some empty affection to fit a scene?  
  
"Hey, can we try something tonight?" you ask some days later, after he's forgotten that lazy summer afternoon.  
  
"Of course," he answers absently still, familiar half smile playing around his lips. He knows the kinds of things you like to try and usually likes them more than you do. He enjoys being bossed around and praised and pampered; he enjoys being loved. So it's easy.  
  
Easy to strip him down; you're practiced at undoing the laces of his corset and the double buckles of his belt. And even better at soothing the tension from his shoulders as you lead him down onto the pillows you laid out, to make him kneel on them. And there's just a bemused smirk as you ease the gag between his teeth, careful not to catch his hair when you buckle it tight.  
  
His lips stretch so prettily around it, no more of those teasing smiles, but his eyes are still bright with subtle amusement. He still wants to know where you're going with this, what's new about this. You've had him kneel before, you've gagged him, and bound his arms behind his back with silky purple ribbons. Because the colour stands out dark against his pale skin and matches the green of his eyes. Because red just clashes with the swirls and whirls of black littered across his whole upper body.  
  
Purple's better, you've told him, and the criss-cross of it wound around his arms is gorgeous now. With his arms behind his back like that, legs spread like this, it's easy to reach around and tease the half-hard lenght of his cock. And with the gag, he can only moan low in his throat for you, none of those silky words to deny your compliments, no matter how much he wants.  
  
"You are lovely," you murmur into his hair, pressing a kiss just below his temple, and he huffs. Barely loud enough to hear but the denial is palpable. He doesn't believe that, but he will, you'll make him.  
  
"I'd write you poetry but I could never get the structure down right."  
  
Which is true, you've tried to string together all the sweetest words you could but they never come out right on the page. Although, somehow you don't think he'd believe you even if you composed whole ballads for him so, this time, showing is better. He makes such a pretty picture after all.  
  
He overbalances a bit when you stand but he's fine, and curious, as you move to the blanket you draped over...something. You didn't let him in the room while you set everything up, the pillows on the floor, the lenght of ribbon next to them, the lube and your favourite toy, and this. The blanket isn't new, it's threadbare and old, but now it's the most eyecatching thing in the room because of what it's covering.  
  
"I had to borrow this from a friend, it's surprisingly hard to find things that match your aesthetic," you snicker, dragging the old blanket off and flinging it on the bed. Then, you step aside and let him get a good first look at the mirror.  
  
The damn thing was heavy, all that glass and the metal frame, your friend had to help get it in here and set up securely but damn if it wasn't worth the hassel. The frame's a dead black that that's already perfect but the decorative filigree's an off-black, silverish grey that swoops and curls into itself just like the mess of ink across his chest. The pattern is impossible to follow and it's an eeerily perfect match, you'd wonder about that if you didn't know better than to ask.  
  
The length is damn perfect too, gets every inch of his too tall self with room to spare, and keeps him in the centre of the frame. He can't squirm away, can't bend himself away from it, and you move back behind him before he tries getting up.  
  
"You're not allowed to look away, sweetheart," you tell him as you kneel behind him, settling on another pillow.  
  
From the lower angle, the effect is stunning, entrancing; it's fucking beautiful and you're going to make sure he knows that.  
  
"Understand?" you prompt him, stroking his flank soothingly. Poor thing looks like a deer caught in the headlights as he stares at himself. Eyes wide, nostrils flared; there's a flicker of shame there but there's arousal too. He's interested in where this is going, trusts that you'll make it enjoyable for him, and trusts that you'll utterly wreck him.  
  
His almost forgets to nod, silky black hair falling in his face as he nods, but he doesn't look away. Good boy.  
  
You start with just light petting to work the tension back out of his muscles and coax his stiff back bent. Light touches along his stomach, smooth down his thighs, and pressing against his chest until he leans back into you. You take your time, rubbing soothing circles into the hollow of his hips and lazy caresses along his warm cock.  
  
In the mirror, you can see a pretty pink blush as it colours his cheeks then go creeping-creeping down the column of his throat and unfurling across his chest, underneath all those tattoos. They stand even blacker against the soft pink and you can't help teasing his flushed red nipples. Pressing up against his back and grinding slowly against his ass.  
  
"Sweet boy," you hum, looking at your reflections over his shoulder, "look at how nice you colour for me, what a pretty blush."  
  
And his eyes flutter shut for a second, his face turning away to press into your shoulder. His groan is bone deep and his cheeks burn an embarrassed red as he tries to hide away from your priase.  
  
"Remember the rule baby," you coo, pinching the nipple under your fingers and he jerks. Whole body twitching, ass rubbing enticingly against you, and his eyes fly open again.  
  
"Eyes on you, I don't want you missing anything."  
  
The noise he makes, the lovely muffled noise, is nonsense, just a husky sound but you know he's trying to say sorry. You can see it in his glimmering eyes and the dip of his head, low and contrite but tipped just high enough to keep his eyes on the mirror. Good boy.  
  
He's easy to shuffle around, to get his legs spread wider, and shudders wonderfully when you get the lube out. Some of it splatters on his back as you cover your fingers, it's hard working with one hand, but you refuse to stop stroking his thigh, knuckles brushing the base of his cock with every sweep.  
  
Too much lube or not, it doens't really matter because he spreads his thighs that much wider when you press wet fingers against his ass. In the mirror you can see the strain and tremble in his legs as he holds himself still, can feel it under your hand, but his eyes are glued on himself. He doesn't try to sneak a peak at you as you ease two fingers into him and though his eyes flutter shut for one long moan, they crack open when you start moving.  
  
"Good boy," and you press a kiss between his shoulderblades, just above his ribbon bound arms.  
  
"I can't write like Blake but I don't think he ever had as wonderful a muse as you," and he shudders, back bowing, as you stretch him out and fuck him slow, "though he had something there, with the stars and woe? Blake had lyrics"  
  
His muffled laughter shakes against you and you grin, you don't care for Blake but your darling does. In the mirror, his eyes are half-lidded but bright, taking in everything, seeing what you always do.  
  
The bob of his throat as he swallows, the quiver of his thighs as you finger open, and the wet bob of his cock with every absent brush of your hand. He can finally appreciate the look of his own ragged breaths and the slick drip of sweat from his temples. Maybe you can even show him how lovely he is when he comes apart at the seams.  
  
"I told my love, I told him all my heart," you hum as you wrap your hand around his dick and the little hitch in his throat as you do is exquisite, and kinda stinkin adorable. You can feel it, the catch in his breath and the tremble that rocks down his spine as you thumb the head of his cock.  
  
"You're gorgeous sweetheart, every bit of you."  
  
He jerks up into your hand, hard to find purchase with his legs spread so wide, but he manages. Shallow little thrusts that you graciously match with your hand, and fingers, setting a steady pace for him, and propping your chin on his shoulder. To see the sheen of sweat settle across him and the heave of his chest and the way your own hand moves so slick over his cock.  
  
If you look just below that, peer just a little over his shoulder, you can even see your other hand fucking into him, and it's all warm and wet and messy. There's lube running down your wrist and precum slicking your hand, and he's drooling around the gag as he groans, muffled things that rumble against your chest.  
  
"Pretty, pretty," you mumble, kissing the side of his throat, his cheek, the corner of his stretched wide mouth, "Look at how fucking gorgeous you fucking yourself on my fingers. All blown eyes and flushed cock, you're a vision sweetheart."  
  
You don't look up when he breaks the rhythm you set, because it's a lot, so much. He's never taken compliments well and you can feel his blush burn across his cheeks, and you know he wants to duck his head, hide away from his reflection, but he doesn't. You already warned him once and he wants to watch.  
  
Even as he's rocking weakly against your hands, he wants to see what you're so adamant on showing him.  
  
"Come on baby, c'mon, for me?" you whisper, lips right against his ear, glancing at the reflection to see his glossy eyes, the tears at the corners.  
  
"Please baby," you moan, and he does. Hot and all at once, a white splash of cum on his stomach and dribbling over your knuckles. It's a mess and you giggle against his cheek, kissing him sweetly as he pants, ragged through his nose. He's trembling now, more from kneeling than his orgasm, and you let go of his soft cock to reach for the washrags.  
  
It's a quick clean up, the cum on his stomach and your hand, the lube all the way down your wrist, not the worst you've gotten up to. Unbuckling the gag comes next and his jaw cracks loudly as he works the ache out of it, you massaging the sides to help.  
  
"How was that baby?" you ask when he can close his mouth properly again, getting started on the ribbons. The knots aren't that complicated but the wrapping was and you want to be careful with him.  
  
"Interesting," he says, stretching out one free arm.  
  
"Something you wanna try again?" and the other one's free, then the ribbon gets pitched in the corner to deal with later.  
  
"It would be fun, but we should clean it first," he laughs, pointing and--  
  
"Shit! I borrowed this!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The copious amounts of William Blake is there because this is V from Devil May Cry. I stinkin love V so freaking much and he's been my muse for a few other of these, Nero also made an appearance, but this is the first time that it's explicitly V. He's just perfect for this one and I love his tats.


	7. Day 8: Enchantment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8: masturbation, teasing, demon, gentle female domination, named characters, male Sub, female Domme,

“Majesty,” Rea whines, blinking up at her with big eyes, “Majesty _please_.”

Margaux taps her fingers on the smooth arm of her throne and considers. Rea is her prettiest pet, her sweetest. He likes to serve; likes to kneel between her thighs when she sits on her throne and eat her out as long as she’ll let him. He likes to wring aching, shaking orgasms from her until her thighs are trembling and her throat’s dry. And he likes to pull away, face wet with her slick, to look at her with those big, adoring purple eyes.

“Queen Margaux please,” he whimpers, rubbing his cheek along her thigh, cheeky, but stopping just before her cunt. He’s a good pet, he knows the rules and never breaks them; he only wants to serve her.

Which should be odd, laughable even. Andrealphus, Grand Marquis of Hell, on his knees to serve a mostly human woman; she blames the mostly human part for finding that so attractive.

She’s seen him strut around with his wings held high and his tail quirked distinctly up and out of the dust. Rea is so vain, spends hours cleaning his feathers when a speck of dirt dares touch them, but here he is now. On his knees for her, vibrant green feathers spread across the stone floor, wings shuddering delicately when she reaches down to cup his cheek.

Rea’s lips fall open, a silent question that she ignores, but everything else is held perfectly still for her; there’s not so much as twitch as she traces his lips. Rea is vain, full of peacock pride, and she wonders where all that vanity goes when she slips two fingers past his lax lips and drags them along his pointed tongue. Maybe he gets some kind of roundabout pleasure from it; showing all the others that his queen is the only one he’d suffer a humiliation for.

Or maybe he just likes being used, he picks up on it so well after all. Rea starts sucking on her fingers, clever tongue slipping between them but so-so careful of the scars there; he’s the only one careful enough to get fingerfucked like this. He moans around her fingers when she pumps them between his lips, crooking down the back of his throat without any kind of resistance. He’s never had a gag reflex and she’s always loved it.

His wings tremble and his gorgeous blue spotted feathers ripple with the effort to stay still as she fucks his face. Slow and methodical sure but its still steady, a steady slide of her fingers from the tip of his tongue, nearly past his lips, all the way to the back while he sucks and slurps and makes a mess of himself. For her.

She can feel the points of his teeth brushing her skin, knows how easy it would be to slice open her flesh and pare it down to the bone. She’s seen him rip into the few assassins fool enough to climb to her bedroom. Rea’s teeth aren’t as large or impressive as some of her pets but they’re effective and very well controlled.

When the struggle to stay still, to be _good_, reaches its peak, Margaux pulls her fingers from Rea’s mouth with a wet pop and smiles at him. His big purple eyes are wide, almost unfocused, except that she knows he’s focusing as hard as he can on _her_. There’s drool down his chin and his lips are bruised red, nearly as red as her hair, but he doesn’t close his mouth.

“Good boy Rea, my pretty boy,” she coos, spreading her legs wider and he shudders. All of him shudders, from the tips of his gorgeous wings to the balled fists in his lap; to keep from touching. And his pretty purple eyes get swallowed up by black when she slips her fingers—_the ones slick with his spit_—between her pussy lips and spreads them wide.

It’s a heady thing to hear a devil Marquis’ desperately breathy groan when she thumbs strokes her own clit. And it’s a powerful thing to see Rea’s wings snap out, spreading out and wide, blocking out all the rest of the room and cacooning them in a comfortable little space of their own. No one can see any more than her Marquis on his knees, Rea’s back and his fanned out tail on the floor. They can’t see her, which is entirely the point.

Rea shares with the other Lords and Graces because he has to, he’s a selfish thing but he can be good for her. Right now though, this isn’t something he ever wants to share. No one else gets to see his Queen spread out and wet, it’s not for them, it’s for **_him_**.

“Please?” he whispers, hoarse and low, pointed tongue slipping out to wet his bruised lips. He’s the picture of submission right now, even if his dangerous wings are spread so wide.

Margaux considers it as she rubs her clit, slippery fingers moving in slow circles that Rea follows with his nearly black eyes. Rea always gets what he wants, eventually, he’s spoiled like that and damn well knows it, and Margaux knows she shouldn’t indulge him as much as she does. Zepar, Phenex, and Vapula already complain about that, they say Rea gets too much leeway and it’s _so_ unfair.

Phenex will insist she’s not jealous at all, how could her Lady even _insinuate_ such things? She’ll huff and sniff and follow her all day, holding her hand or braiding pieces of her hair, and stare most imperiously when Andrealphus sneers at her. And later, at night, when Margaux’s nearly asleep, Phenex will crawl into bed with her. A warmth at her back and knees tucked in behind hers. 

Vapula will blink green cat’s eyes at her and pout, tail lashing so fiercely, but she always gets so much touchier. She has no problem saying just how much she doesn’t like their Queen playing favourites, not that she _is_, because that would mean Andrealphus is favourite and he can’t be. Vapula will insist on laying on her lap, or at her feet, or holding her, just to prove Andrealphus is **_not_** her favourite. Only the favourite gets to touch the Queen as much as Vapula does, so _there_.

Zepar doesn’t pout and whine like a jealous child but he does bring her pretty things to sway her affections. He’ll bring the beating heart of a lion to her, presenting it ever so smugly while Vapula rolls her eyes and growls. He’ll bring her soft furs and feather stuffed pillows and glittering gems, because he’s not a spoilt bird and knows how to treat his Queen.

And if Zepar sneaks into her bath when no one else watches, sliding into the warm water to pepper her with desperate kisses, then no one else needs to know. If Zepar organizes days long hunts for her court, then sneaks away to come see her, then she won’t tell.

“Majesty?”

Margaux reaches up—_with the hand not slowly fucking into her cunt and making her blood warm_—to touch one trembling wing. Spread as wide as it can go and locked in place, Rea’s wing doesn’t have anywhere to go when she cards her fingers through all the coverts and secondaries overlapping each other in the wingpit. They part so easy for her fingers, slipping between and around, brushing her hand, and Rea moans.

She’d say the dark blue and ocean teal looks nice surrounding the brown of her hand, but she likes the golden eyes better. They shine metallic, beaten gold, but they’re down soft under her fingers, barely real. Rea shifts subtly, changing the dig of stone into his knees, and getting his face ever so slightly closer to her skin.

She should gag him and let him watch while she fucks herself. She should, but she doesn’t.

Instead, Margaux spreads her legs wider, presses her thighs against the arms of her throne and lets her back slide down, jutting her hips forward. Rea watches her, eyes fixed on the fingers sinking into her cunt, the shine of her slick on the velvet seat.

One beat, two beat, and he moans, guttural and rasping and edged with demonic intent. Her permission is nearly imperceptible, barely a quirk of her lips or whisper on her tongue, but Rea knows what to look for, what it sounds like when his Queen gives him the go ahead. Margaux drops her hand from his wing, resting it on his mess of black curls instead, and smiles as Andrealphus leans into her.

His fingers are gentle around her wrist, taking her hand away with utmost care, and entirely at odds with the noise he makes when he finally gets his mouth on her cunt. A growl of a groan rumbles against her clit, then his tongue, warm and clever as ever, and Margaux sighs as her pretty pet goes to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another of Margaux's harem and it fits into the theme because he's bound to her via magic and that's enough for me.


	8. Day 9 & 10: Darkness & Asphyxiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood drinking, asphyxiation, breath play, taunting, vampire, male Sub, gender neutral Domme

"Shh," he murmurs in the neon-glow dark, lips to your ear.

"Quiet," and it's playful, like the cool hand running along your spine, tapping along the vertebrae.

He should be terrifying, you think. Your heart should be pounding, should be stuck in your throat so tight you can't breathe. Your hands should be shaking and there should be clammy sweat creeping down your back.

In the lazy-hazy dark, he's just a silhouette, a shadow. Long and lean between your legs, standing against the soft blue darkness. You can't see his face where it's tucked in close to your neck, chin resting on your shoulder, but you saw his eyes. Glinting, cat's eye bright and inhuman, while he smiled, devil sharp and bloody.

You should be terrified. You're not.

There's blood on your cheek, where he kissed you so chaste and sweet. Smears of it that dried stiff and cracks when you smile. Quiet? Why?

It's only the two of you here in his home. Quiet becuase the window's open and the curtains're blowing free? Quiet because there's a whole city outside that could hear? How would they hear? You're so far above them, hidden away in his penthouse where there's nothing but you, and him, and neon lights buzzing through the open window.

"What if I'm not?" you hum, barely loud enough for your own ears, but he clicks his tongue and pulls away. Not far, never too far, but enough to look at you.

Still close so you can see the glints of gold in his eyes, catching and reflecting the light in some impossibly expensive way. You never thought vampires would have gold flecked eyes, you thought it was all glowing red and pitch black, but he's always surprising you. The hand that cups your cheek, at least, is cool and not some other trope subverting thing.

His hand is cool, and gentle, craddling your cheek and his fingers slow their meticulous counting. Tapering off to rest on the curve of your lower back, fingers spread to hold you.

He told you once that he could kill you so easy. Snap your neck, crush you, drink the blood from your veins, break open your ribcage and steal your heart. He told you his sire used to do that with his mortal lovers, take their hearts when he left so no one else could have it.

You've told him he's not special. Humans are breakable, killable. You can get run down in the street, you can trip and break your neck your own self, you can fall off a building, you can drown, burn, suffer a stroke. You can die without him lifting a finger, he's not special.

"Then I'll make you," he purrs, low and secret, just for you. And he smiles, showing off delicately curved fangs, gleaming in the dark. And he slides his cool hand down to your throat, fingers curling, palm steady and solid against your windpipe.

He could flex and snap your neck but you aren't particularly worried. You're excited instead. You want to see how far he'll go, how far you can push him.

"Will you? I don't think you can," it's a tease, it's a taunt. You want him to try, you want him to stop being so terribly careful with you.

He worries so much, about how breakable you are, but his control is impecable. You don't think he could accidentally hurt a hair on your head, and it's a little infuriating. When you want him to squeeze tighter, go longer, fuck rougher.

Gentle and sweet is lovely, it's grand, but it's not what you want all the time. He's a fucking supernatural, inhuman something, and you want to get fucked six ways to Sunday.

You want bruises, splotchy and purple-blue, you want his fingers bruised into your hips and around your neck and sunk into your thighs. You want his kisses bitten into your throat and scattered across your chest like constellations of his desire. You want to wake up aching and sore and self-satisfied with his ear against your chest, listening to the beat of your heart that he won't get the chance to rip out and take with him.

He's yours.

"I can," he says, fingers flexing, grip tightening, but not enough. You can still breathe just fine, still think about the gorgeous fall of his hair and the weight of him pressing you against the desk. You don't want to think, you want to feel.

"Prove it," you laugh, reaching up-up to cup his cheek, to press the pad of your thumb against one gleaming fang.

He stops breathing, you feel it, a sudden stop, a sudden silence, but you don't, His eyes are on you, deer in the headlights and oh yes, what a vicious killer you have on your hands.

"Prove it sweetheart."

And slice open your thumb, deep, deeper than you meant but that's fine. There's more blood, warm and gushing, but that's better. His eyes dilate, cat's eye widening, as you smear your blood on his tongue, pushing past his lax lips and laughing at the wounded little sound he makes.

He starts sucking automatically, agile tongue working over the cut, lapping at your blood and moaning so low in his chest its a bone deep rumble. A sound you can't pick up with your ears but makes your heart beat fast and collects low in your belly. Something that's dangerous, meant to be dangerous, but you want it.

So you're reckless, maybe a touch too much, but you'll worry about that later. You twist your hand, drag your thumb out of his mouth so you can slice your palm against his fangs. Two perfect slices straight through the meat that sting and burn and bleed.

And there's a perfect second of calm, of nothing, where he's staring at you, so shocked and you're smirking at him, so smug. Then a breeze whips the curtains out with a snap and his eyes blow wide, pupils dilating so far there's nothing but black in his eyes, no more gold. His tongue drags across your palm with a sound so guttural deep, so much a proper predator growl, your heart falters.

Then picks up, slamming against your ribs, catching in your throat and making it hard to get a full breath--oh no, no that's his hand. Tighter, fingers pressed tight against those important veins that gush so pretty when they're cut. Hard enough to bruise already, to leave pretty spots of red then purple-blue behind.

He knows how hard and how long and how much, doesn't he? Your darling little bloodsucker, who's lapping at your palm like a cat, tongue rasping almost painfully hard to get every last drop. Who's moaning against your hand, wet and pleased, satisfied.

He already fed for the week, glutted himself then, but he can be greedy and you can be persistent. Your mouth falls open on a wet breath of your own, shallow of course, as his tongue rasps down over your wrist. Another pulse point. How must it feel against his lips? With your heart hammering in your chest, pumping all that blood he loves so much.

You make a sound, some little thing, because you feel it in the back of your throat, when he bites your wrist. Not to break the skin and bleed you some more. No, he bites to leave a mark, and sucks hard to make sure it bruises a pretty, lovely red.

More red, so much red. You thought it would be his colour but he's purples, lavendars, ultarviolets. You're red; bruise red and blush red and blood red. Smeared on your wrist, beading on your palm, slicked onto your lips when he coaxes you into a kiss.

A kiss that's red-red-red.

You know the taste of your own blood on his tongue, copper and thick and salt and silver. And the taste of his moans too. Purred into your mouth as he kisses desperately, and messy, it's messy. Drool slipping down your chin, and blood, and your lips keep falling apart. Trying to get a full breath, but his hand around your neck keeps stopping you, and it's exquisite.

There's nothing to see in the darkness, neon-after glow or not, but there's black bursting across it anyway. Black with hints of blur blue and yellow-purple-green and nothing but the feeling of his hand so tight. And his lips against your jaw, mouthing words, biting more marks there, whispering things you can't hear.

Even when his fingers loosen and you gasp, deep and stuttering, tripping over the relief of it. The black fades and you see him, there, watching you with worry creeping in again. His hands are gentle again, cupping your throat, stroking your back, but you roll your eyes.

Wipe the drool off your chin with the heel of your bloody palm.

"Was that the best you could do?"


	9. Day 14: Dry Humping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: teasing, brattiness, male Sub, female Domme, once more there's pussy here y'all

No touching and no staying quiet. Simple rules, easy to follow, but he can't really focus on them right now. Can't get his tongue to move the way he wants, can't get his hands to stay locked around the headboard. Fucking. Can't get her to just sit on his god damn face already and stop teasing!

"Words honey, I can't read yer mind," she coos, petting his cock through his fucking pants and he can't. Shit.

"Well, yet."

And he can't do this, he can't stand the fucking touching and teasing and sugar sweet voice egging him on. But he can't let her win. Like hell he's letting her win.

"Face now," he growls, spitting the words through his grit teeth and resiting the urge to buck up again. Her hands are so perfect, just so fucking good, but it's not enough. Stroking him throug his jeans and his boxers isn't enough, not the way she's doing it.

Sure her palms are firm, dragging hard enough to get some real friction going but it's erratic. Heel of her hand digging into his balls one second, fingers rubbing hot, tight circles over his cock head, like she's determined to milk every drop out of precum out of him, then she switches to pawing. Little kitten swats like a fucking cat and he can't handle the pace changes.

He keeps trying to chase her down without grabbing and she just rocks back on her knees till she's sitting on his chest. And he can feel her, fuck can he feel her. She's already wet and slick, dripping on his stomach every time she sits back, tossing winks over her shoulder like some kinda seductress.

"Alright honey," she drawls, propping her hands on the bed and spinning around to face him. Which is not what he fucking meant and doens't make things any better.

Now he can see her blotchy blush, how it makes her freckles stand out some more, and the heavy of her tits in that too small bra she decided to wear. And he can't touch because she's a sadist and he's better than her games. He can win this, no matter how god damn gorgeous she loosk right now.

"On my face, darlin," he clarifies, mimicking her sugar sweet, down home drawl terribly but enough to get her grinning again. She always thinks it's the stupidest thing, when he tries to mock her like that. He doesn't have the voice for it, she says, and doens't know how to drag his words til they're nice and tender. Whatever the hell that means.

Her grins incredible though, big and warm and he wants to kiss her, god does he wanna just sit up and kiss all that smugness right off her face, but that's against the rules. He sits up and he knows he'll catch her around the hips, it's worn into his muslce memory at this point.

"Well all you had to do was ask, honey," she laughs, leaning back to give his aching dick one last rub before climbing up to his shoulders.

She's nice then, for the first time all night, she's nice enough to just sit on his fucking face and let him eat her out in peace. About god damn time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these two are also based on vidya gayme characters but I'll not say who till the end of the challenge. unfortunately days 11 thru 13 have disappeared off the calendar. Please join me in pressing F

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MMaximilla)


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